Light at the End of the Tunnel

Air so thick I can cut it with a knife and then watch slabs fall with pudding-like thuds at my feet onto the slimy grasses.  I can wipe the wet mist from my face as if I had been crying “repentlessly”.  Where do the birds hide their naked fledglings?  Where do the bees conceal themselves for days?  The tree frogs and the spadefoots sing for hours,  a festival of Huge and Small Leap